"Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below,
The dim Sierras far beyond uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring campfire with good humor painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth.
Till one arose and from his pack's scant treasure
The hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew.
And as around them shadows gathered faster
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of Little Nell.
Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, for the reader
Was youngest of them all,
Yet, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall.
The fir trees gathering closer in the shadows
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp with little Nell, on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.
Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire,
And he who wro't that spell;
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell.
Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills